I kept a little clock
on the far side of my shelf—
the kind that ticks politely
and never calls attention
to itself.
It came with a tiny key
meant to wind its quiet heart,
but the person who owned it
never bothered
to start.
They always said they’d fix it
“when things finally calm down,”
as if time waits politely
for anyone
in town.
So the clock sat still
in a dignified freeze—
like a butler abandoned
at a long-canceled
tea.
It practiced keeping rhythm
even though it couldn’t move,
trying to prove
(again and again)
that it had something
to prove.
It polished its own brass face
with a stubborn, lonely shine,
murmuring to the silence,
“One day… someone
will call me
mine.”
But days slipped by
in the way days do—
quiet, careless,
unaware
they’re being cruel.
Dust gathered like gossip
around its frozen grin,
and the clock thought,
“Strange…
I’m here,
but I’m not
let in.”
Then one soft morning,
a visitor strolling through
noticed how the clock
still gleamed
like something
true.
They lifted it gently—
the care was almost art—
and wound the little key
straight into
its start.
The gears woke gasping
like someone who forgot
how good it feels
to matter
in a place
you’re not.
And time began again—
not loudly,
not bold—
just a steady, grateful heartbeat
in a room
that wasn’t cold.
Back on the old shelf,
its absence made a hush—
not dramatic,
just a pause
that made the air
go still
and blush.
The former owner blinked at it,
confused by the new space,
feeling something hollow
slip across
their face.
They muttered,
“Odd…
I didn’t realize
you just needed
to be wound.”
But clocks remember touch—
the kind that’s
finally
found.
And regret?
It ticks quietly
in the corners
of the mind—
the sound of chances wasted
by someone
who didn’t
find
the time
skin loves fever 
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